He glanced quickly through the door as he passed: Marcellinus, with the women to either side of him, kneeling before an altar in a puddle of wavering light. A thin stream of incense smoke rose between them. Castus noticed the figure of the goddess in the niche of the altar: Fortuna the Homebringer.
Reaching the end of the corridor, he stepped out into the portico and then down into the courtyard. No sound from the stable block. He crossed the gravel, gratefully breathing the cool night air.
A sentry stood at the stable door, straightening up suddenly as he approached.
‘Halt! What’s the watchword!’
‘Sol Invictus. It’s me, Vincentius.’
‘Sorry, centurion, all I saw was a shadow. So quiet out here.’
‘Stay awake.’
The sentry moved aside and he entered the stable. His men lay stretched on the straw, many of them snoring deeply: the usual barrack-room chorus. The standard-bearer, Evagrius, stepped from the darkness and saluted.
‘All well, centurion. Timotheus let them turn in early.’
‘Good. They’ve given me quarters in the house, but I’ll be up well before dawn. Make sure everybody is ready to move at sunrise.’
Another salute, and Castus went back out to the yard. The stars overhead were very bright and clear. He thought of Marcellinus and his family, praying for a safe return. The tears in his daughter’s eyes… What did they think would happen? The wife had lost a son to the Picts already. Not surprising they were worried. Even so, he thought, perhaps they knew something he did not. In that case, better he never found out.
At the steps to the front portico he paused and breathed deeply, until his chest was full and he could feel the heavy beat of blood in his neck. Your first responsibility will be the protection of the envoy… then the security of your own men. So the governor had said. Marcellinus appeared to be able to look after himself, but those men snoring in the stable straw depended on him to lead them.
Castus exhaled slowly, but the burden remained upon him, the weight of command. He remembered something he had been told long ago by his first centurion, Priscus, who had died in the dust at Oxsa when the cataphracts had broken through the line. A stern man, hard and taciturn, but he had been drinking that day and he had grown strange, maudlin. When they make you a centurion, they don’t just give you a stick and a pay rise, boy, Priscus had told him. They give you a new face too. A mask of bronze, riveted to the front of your skull. That mask is your duty, and you wear it always.
Castus had not understood at the time; he had just nodded, frowned and tried to hide his dismay. Because when you’re up there in front of half a hundred frightened conscripts, Priscus went on, and the barbarians come screaming to cut them up, they’ll be looking to you for strength. But it’s not your face they want to see. Not a man’s face. They want to see the mask, that bronze mask of command, hard and inflexible, without fear.
Was that how Priscus had appeared at Oxsa as he had led them towards his own death? Castus could not remember now. But he remembered the trust he’d had for his centurion then, the belief in his strength. Would he be able to show that same conviction, when it came to it? All his life he had wanted to live up to that duty, to lead men in battle and take the challenge of command, but now he muttered a silent prayer that he would not be so tested, not this time at least.
Back in the corridor of the villa, he crept as quietly as he could towards his room. The lamps had all been extinguished now; everyone was preparing for an early departure. He was feeling his way along the wall when he noticed a movement from an open door and poised, muscles locked.
‘Centurion,’ a voice said. He could see her now, standing just inside the doorway. Her face was a pale smudge in the shadows, but he could see her large dark eyes, the intensity of her gaze. He stepped closer.
‘My father trusts you,’ the girl said, her voice little more than a whisper. She advanced into the corridor and stood before him – her head only reached his chest. ‘He told me that, and he’s a good judge of men.’
‘Glad to hear it.’
‘Promise me,’ the girl said, eyes wide. ‘Promise me you’ll protect him and bring him home safely.’
‘He’ll be safe, domina. There’s nearly sixty armed soldiers going with him, after all.’
‘I need you to promise!’ the girl cried in a hoarse whisper. She reached out and seized the neck of Castus’s tunic. He felt her fingers, thin and hard against his skin. ‘Swear to me that you’ll look after him and watch over him at all times.’
‘All right,’ Castus said. He was not used to taking orders from women, but he could hear the desperation in her voice. ‘I swear by the Unconquered Sun and all the gods of Rome that I’ll watch out for your father, keep him safe and bring him home.’
She dropped her head, still clinging to his tunic. A moment passed. His arms hung by his sides, big and useless. He had no idea how to comfort her now.
Then, quickly, she raised her head, stretched on her toes and kissed him on the cheek.
‘Thank you,’ she said quietly, then she turned and went back into the consuming darkness.
4
We’re going into Pictland? Just us – on our own?’
‘We pick up some mounted scouts at Bremenium, but otherwise, yes, just us.’
‘They’ll cut us to pieces and boil our bones…!’
It was mid-morning, four hours of marching behind them already, and now the men of the century were assembled at the side of the road in the shade of the trees. Castus stood facing them, his staff gripped level in both fists. He had not been looking forward to this little address.
‘Quiet in the ranks!’ growled Timotheus, a moment too late. Genialis’s comment had already raised a stir of agitation. Castus scanned the faces of his men: some looked shocked, disbelieving; others apprehensive. One or two grinned in feigned amusement. But a satisfying number just stared back at him, neutral, trusting to the wisdom of their superiors. As do I, Castus thought. For better or worse.
‘We’re not going to be doing any fighting,’ he said, with heavy emphasis. ‘Our job is to escort those two over there’ – he jutted his staff towards Strabo and Marcellinus, waiting with their horses on the far side of the road – ‘up to meet the Picts and talk things over with them in a peaceful and friendly way.’
A few more grins now, the men nudging each other.
‘So nobody’s getting chopped up and eaten, unless I give you permission. We just march up there, stand around looking Roman, then march back home.’
‘So long as we’re not expected to dance for the Picts, or sing…’
‘No, Atrectus, you’re not. That would be counted as a just cause for war.’
The grins broke to laughter, and Castus allowed himself to relax a little, the tension easing from his shoulders. They were fine now, but they had ten more days of marching ahead of them. He would talk to Timotheus and Evagrius. Important to keep the rumours and the muttering in check, or he would be leading a very unwilling set of soldiers north of the Wall.
‘That’s all. Get into line and let’s move – there’s another four hours yet till we reach Cataractonium.’
They marched for the rest of the day, the road reeling on ahead of them and falling away behind, still straight as an arrow-shot. After a while it become hypnotic, the stretch of packed gravel always ahead, never ending, and the eye came to hunger for a bend, a bridge, anything to break the monotony. Castus didn’t mind, though: easier to march steadily when you didn’t have to think.